The Fishing Rod

The fishing rod is rough in my hands.
As I cast I feel the wind run through the line,
Then plop, my sinker hits the surface of the water.
It sinks down, down into the deep
And then it drops to the bottom of the dark, murky ocean.
I reel up a bit.
I sit.
I wait.
My uncle gave the fishing rod to me
To pass down the fishing-spirit that he once had.
His face is rough and faded, wind-scarred,
His right arm strong from reeling the fish from the deep.
Then the rod arcs.
I reel the humongous bearded cod in from the deep.
I give the fish a second chance
And slide it back into its beautiful home.
I slap my backpack on my left shoulder,
My rod held in my right hand,
And walk over the rough, wooden wharf,
Making my way home.